Medical Judgment

by Richard L. Mabry M. D.

  How long am I going to have to carry that gun? How long will this go on? Surely by now Bill Larson has found the person responsible for doing this to me. She reached for her cell phone and hit the speed dial for Larson’s number before she could change her mind. She needed some reassurance.

  “Detective Larson.”

  “This is Sarah Gordon. I just wanted to check . . . ” Sarah hesitated. Asking for reassurance would put her back to where she’d been a month ago, dependent on others to protect her. But she’d made the call. She needed to think of an excuse, fast. Then her eyes lit on the phone in the living room. “I wanted to see if you had any word on getting a recorder on my phone at home.”

  “I put in the request, but command staff is sort of jammed up right now. It may be another day or two. You’ve only had that one call this time—right?”

  “Right,” she said. Then, as though it was simply an afterthought, “Is . . . is there any progress in tracking down the person responsible?”

  “No, but there are a couple of us working on it. I’ll keep you posted.”

  She could tell he was in a hurry, even though he tried not to betray it. “I’ll let you go. Thanks for your efforts.”

  Sarah ended the call, then slumped into a kitchen chair. She reached over to her backpack, unzipped the outer compartment, and removed the pistol. It fit comfortably into her hand. It was lighter than the one Harry used to have. Strange, how such a small instrument could be so lethal. Could she really shoot someone with it? Then she thought of everything the unknown person had done to torment her—the phone calls, the stalking, the fire, the gunshot, the wounding of her dog. And Sarah knew, just as certainly as though it had been written out for her, that the next event would be an actual attempt on her life.

  She nodded to herself and shoved the pistol into the backpack. Yes, she’d definitely use the gun, if it came to that. Matter of fact, she sort of hoped she’d have the opportunity soon.

  * * *

  The call from Sarah Gordon had been a welcome interruption, but now Bill Larson turned back to his computer. He could remember when detective work was done mainly on the streets—knocking on doors, talking to people, investigating and following up. Now it seemed that much of his day was spent at his desk, usually consulting one or another of the law enforcement databases, sometimes talking on the phone. He wasn’t sure if this was truly progress, but that was the way it was now.

  He wished he could simply go to the NCIC—the National Crime Information Center—and enter a search term like “person harassing Sarah Gordon.” Unfortunately, it wasn’t that simple.

  One of the first things he’d done after returning from lunch with Cal was check on the late John Hawkins. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Cal’s research—truth be told, the other detective was more computer literate than Larson. But he couldn’t believe there wasn’t some connection between Mrs. Hawkins, the woman involved in the accident that killed Harry and Jennifer Gordon, and the current attacks on their wife and mother.

  Larson had to wade through several layers to be certain he was checking on the right man, given the common name, but it wasn’t long before he found the information he wanted. A matter of weeks after Rena Hawkins died in the car crash, her husband, John Hawkins, committed suicide. He was found inside his garage, in his car with the engine running and a hose going from the tailpipe into the auto. The police hadn’t found any evidence of foul play, and the medical examiner ruled it suicide. Case closed.

  What about other family members? Larson knew Cal had investigated this possibility also, but he double-checked. Both Rena and John were only children. Their parents were dead. They’d been childless. So far as he could tell, there was no one left to mourn the Hawkins’ passing except a few friends. Dead end.

  Cal had already looked for anything in Sarah Gordon’s life that would explain the harassing attempts, and come up empty. Not that he doubted Cal’s work, but Larson rechecked, with the same results. Then he’d searched for connections with Harry Gordon but could find nothing suggesting a person who might be responsible for all the things Sarah had suffered. Larson had followed every lead he could think of, and they all were dead ends. And that left him with one possibility—these were the random crimes of a deranged person, with no motivation outside the sick workings of his brain. And such people were almost impossible to catch.

  The detective wanted to bang his head against a wall in frustration. No, that wasn’t right. It dawned on him that what he really wanted was a drink . . . or two . . . or five. He could almost smell the aroma coming off the glass as he raised it to his lips, could taste the alcohol stimulating his taste buds, could feel the calming effect of a few drinks. Previously, no matter how frustrated he’d been, no matter how difficult the problem with which he dealt, it had always worked. And he had no doubt that it would now . . . for a while.

  Of course, there was always the after. He’d experienced that as well. And it had kept getting worse and worse until one day he’d awakened in the drunk tank in his own jail. His gun and his shield were gone, of course. When he called Annie to explain, she told him his captain had already contacted her. And rather than asking a lawyer friend to bail him out, she’d simply said, “No. He might as well get used to sleeping alone. I’m leaving.”

  Larson didn’t want that to happen again. But if he started drinking, something he fought every day, he knew it was only a matter of time before he’d once more be stripped of his gun and his shield—and the last shred of self-respect to which he clung.

  He knew he could fight the temptation to drink, but Larson thought of something that might be better than going down this road alone. He dialed a number, praying the party on the other end of the line would be available.

  “Hello?”

  “Pastor? Steve? This is Bill Larson.”

  “Bill, how are you?”

  “I’ve been better,” the detective said. “Are you going to be home for a while?”

  * * *

  On Tuesday, Pastor Steve Farber usually gave himself permission to relax. He had a couple of sermon topics in mind for this coming Sunday. Tomorrow, he’d pull out some references, do a bit of Bible study, and make a final decision. But today—ah, today was going to be given to reading for pleasure, taking a long walk, getting some things done around the house. That is, it was until he started getting phone calls. Ah, well. What was it he’d heard so many times in his life? If you want to hear God laugh, tell Him your plans.

  The doorbell rang. Farber pushed himself out of the comfortable chair in his study, moved slowly to the front door, and made certain he was smiling when he opened it. “Bill, come in. Come in.”

  Bill Larson shook hands with the pastor. “Thanks for seeing me on short notice. I suspect you know why I’m here.”

  “One of two reasons, I suspect,” Farber said. “One is that you’re here to arrest me for all the terrible things I’ve done to Sarah Gordon because I hate doctors after one let my wife die.”

  The detective shook his head.

  “Well, in that case, we’ll go with my other guess,” the pastor said. “Since you don’t have an AA sponsor, you need some support to avoid drinking.” He led the way into his study. “Why don’t you take that chair there? I think you’ll find it a comfortable place to sit while you tell me what’s caused this latest crisis in your life.”

  The detective poured out his story, and Farber found he could identify with the frustration Larson felt. All of us, no matter what our profession or station in life, can hit walls like this. But although he waited and watched for Larson to mention one particular problem, it never made it into the conversation.

  When Bill seemed to have run down, Farber said, “Feel better?”

  “I guess so. I’d still like for all my problems and frustrations to go away, but that’s not going to happen. Instead, I have to deal with them. I need to suck it up and move on.”

  “So you’re not likely to drink?”

  “Not today
.”

  “Right answer. That’s what we have to hang our hats on—one day at a time.” Farber fiddled with the papers on his desk, wondering how to phrase his next question. Finally, he decided to speak plainly. After all, Bill had called him, not the other way around. “I keep waiting for you to mention your personal situation. Doesn’t your divorce, the miles that separate you from your wife and son, bother you?”

  Bill nodded. “Of course. But I think I’ve finally reached the point where I realize I can’t get Annie and Billy back just by not drinking. My sobriety is necessary, of course, but ultimately it’s her decision whether we get back together.”

  “But you’re still staying in touch with your ex-wife? You call her regularly?”

  The pastor watched as Bill thought about that. He could see him going over the past few days in his mind. Then he shook his head.

  “I . . . I usually call Annie every week or so. You know, ask about Billy, see what’s new with them, that sort of thing. I’ve intended to do that this weekend, but, come to think of it, I didn’t.”

  “Why do you think that is?” Farber asked.

  “I guess I’ve just been too busy.”

  “Is that it . . . or have thoughts of reuniting with your ex-wife been replaced in your mind by a plan for you to marry someone else—someone like Sarah Gordon?”

  * * *

  Kyle Andrews hurried up the walk to Pastor Steve Farber’s house, the aroma from the wrapped loaf of fresh French bread he held drifting up to his nostrils and making his stomach rumble. He looked forward to dinner with Steve, but when he thought of the conversation he needed to have first, his hunger threatened to vanish as quickly as it had manifested itself.

  He had his hand poised over the bell when the door opened, and he almost ran into Detective Bill Larson. Larson’s head was down, his mind obviously elsewhere, and it was only quick work on Kyle’s part that prevented a full-on collision. The detective looked up at the last minute, stopped in his tracks, and said, “Sorry. I guess—”

  “Yeah, I know. Your mind was a thousand miles away. Been there.”

  Larson hurried to the curb, trailing one last word of apology after him.

  Steve Farber appeared in the doorway Larson had just vacated. “Come in, come in.” He reached out and took the loaf of bread. “I’m going to wrap this in foil and put it in a low oven to keep it warm. You know where my study is. Make yourself at home.”

  Kyle eased into the club chair, figuring from his prior visit that the pastor would take a seat in what appeared to be his favorite chair, leaving the two men facing each other.

  Sure enough, Farber headed straight for the wing chair. When he was seated, he said to Kyle, “Well, what’s on your mind this time? Still having trouble letting Sarah deal with her grief in her own way?”

  “No, I’ve pretty well reconciled myself to that,” Kyle said. “After meeting with you, I made an effort to pull back and stop pressuring her to get over it, the way I did. For a while, she was leaning on me a lot, and frankly, I enjoyed her dependence. But lately she’s started acting more independent, to the point of not really needing me anymore.”

  “Isn’t that what you want?” Farber said.

  “I’m not sure. There’s something else going on, something I guess I ought to share with you.”

  Farber nodded but remained silent.

  “I’ve had feelings for Sarah since Harry’s death . . . maybe even before then, after I lost Nicole. These feelings—I don’t know if you’d call them love or need or what—but they’ve driven me to do some crazy things.”

  “Such as . . . ”

  “Well, most recently I recorded one of her phone conversations with me. And I’ve seriously considered stalking her.”

  * * *

  Sarah had no sooner gone through the sliding glass doors that marked Centennial Hospital’s emergency entrance than her cell phone began to ring. She looked at the display and saw that the call came from inside the hospital. She was at least half an hour early for her shift. Did the ER need her now? Would she have to stay a bit late? She moved to a quiet area at the end of the registration desk and answered the call.

  “Dr. Gordon, this is Madge in the hospital administrator’s office. Can you come here now?”

  “Is this something we can handle over the phone?” Sarah said. “I’m just about to go on duty in the ER.”

  Sarah heard a male voice in the background.

  “Hang on a second,” Madge said. Then her voice was replaced by what passed for music on hold at the hospital.

  Sarah was about to hang up when she heard the same male voice, this time talking directly into the phone. She hadn’t heard it much lately, but when he identified himself she had no reason to doubt him. “Dr. Gordon, this is Reginald Archer. I need to see you in my office right now.”

  “Mr. Archer, can this wait? It’s almost time for me to go to work in the ER.”

  “That’s what I wanted to tell you face-to-face, but since you seem to be forcing my hand, I’ll tell you on the phone. You’re not going on duty. You’re suspended.”

  23

  Steve Farber wondered sarcastically if perhaps there was something in the water. Or maybe it was the phase of the moon. Two men had come to him for counseling today, and the crux of both visits was either infatuation or love for the same widowed doctor in his congregation. They certainly didn’t talk about this in seminary.

  “Do you think you’ve always had feelings for Sarah?” he asked Kyle Andrews.

  “I’ve tried to sort it out, and I’m not sure,” Kyle said. “If I did while Harry was alive, I must have buried them pretty deeply. After all, they were happily married.”

  “So what you’re experiencing now came on after Harry Gordon’s death.”

  “It’s been gradual, I think. When someone tried to set her house on fire, I’m the one she called. When that same person took a shot at her, she phoned me—although, come to think of it, she also called Detective Larson.”

  “And did that make you jealous?” Farber asked.

  “I . . . well . . . maybe a little, I guess.”

  “Why were you jealous? A crime had been committed. Larson’s job is to investigate.”

  Kyle didn’t have an answer for that. He shook his head.

  “Do you think competing with Larson affected your feelings toward Sarah Gordon?” Farber asked.

  Kyle frowned and was quiet. The pastor didn’t break the silence. Let him think. He’s intelligent. He’ll see it in a moment.

  Kyle sighed. “I guess it intensified the attraction I felt. And I haven’t mentioned this to you yet, but I think she’s seeing someone else now.”

  “And if she starts dating anyone at this point, it should be you. I mean, after all you’ve done, it’s only fair. Is that what you think?”

  After a prolonged silence, Kyle melted like a schoolboy who’s just had his theories smashed by a patient but authoritative teacher. “I see what you’re saying,” he said.

  “And what do you plan to do with your newfound insight?” Farber asked.

  “I really don’t know.”

  “Let’s talk about it some more,” the pastor asked. “And then maybe we should pray about it.”

  * * *

  “So I’m suspended?” Sarah worked to keep her voice down, but it was all she could do to maintain a halfway civil tone. “Care to tell me why?”

  “Doctor, I wanted to avoid an outburst like this, which is why I asked you to come to my office. Unfortunately, you had to hear the news over the phone, and I’m sorry about that.” The hospital administrator pointed to the chairs across from his desk. “But now that you’re here, please sit down and give me a chance to explain. When I’m through, I believe you’ll understand.”

  Sarah dropped her backpack on the floor beside her, grabbed both wooden arms of one of the chairs opposite Archer, and slowly lowered herself into a sitting position. Her actions throughout were deliberate, but when she looked down she saw t
hat her knuckles were white as her hands gripped the chair. What she really wanted to do, she thought, was vault over the desk, grab the lapels of the administrator’s gray pinstripe suit jacket, and shake him.

  Archer leaned back in his executive swivel chair, tented his fingertips, and said, “First, let me say that I and all of us here in administration understand the stress you’re under, not just with the deaths of your husband and daughter, but the events that have taken place in the past week or more.”

  Sarah bit down so hard she felt her jaw pop. Obviously, the hospital’s gossip network was working well, even though she’d tried to keep the knowledge of what she was going through confined to a few people. And what does it matter if he knows? Don’t look for another fight to pick. You have enough to worry about, Sarah.

  “I’ve heard from the ER personnel about the way you handled the man who pulled a gun down there on Sunday. It was very brave of you to face him, then to distract him until the security guard and a policeman could subdue him. You’re to be congratulated.”

  “Thanks, I guess. But I didn’t ask for a medal. Matter of fact, I had thoughts for just a moment of pulling a gun and trying to shoot the man instead of reasoning with him.”

  “I realize that,” Archer said. “You had a revolver in your backpack, and for a brief moment you had it in your hand. Unfortunately, that was the cause of the problem we now have.”

  Sarah shook her head as though trying to drive away a bothersome fly. “What? I don’t know what you mean.”

  “As you may know, we have signs at every hospital entrance saying that it’s against the law to bring guns onto the property. This, of course, doesn’t apply to sworn law officers and our security people, but—”

  “But the man with the gun broke the law. I realize that. I imagine he’ll pay a fine or get some jail time.”